The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [104]
He knocked Durand’s glass firmly against his chest, spilling its contents down the front of the Frenchman’s waistcoat.
Durand stared down at the spreading stain in surprise.
“Listen,” Quire said as clearly as he could. “You need to clean yourself up. Go out into the lobby as if that’s what you mean to do. There’s a man waiting there, by the cloakroom. He has clothes to make you a bit less obvious.”
Durand stared in disbelief into the variegated mask confronting him.
“Sergeant Quire?” he said.
“Yes, of course. Get out there, man. You’re coming away from here with me tonight.”
“I think it unlikely.” Durand shook his head dolefully, a little of the excessive powder that had been applied to his wig drifting on to his shoulders. “They are suspicious of me, and…”
Quire seized him roughly by the arm, squeezing the flesh of it above the elbow. He put every fierce sentiment he had cultivated over the last weeks into his voice.
“I need to know everything you know, Durand. Everything, not hints and games. So you’re coming away with me now, or so help me I’ll add you to the list of folk I’ve got a quarrel with.”
The Frenchman stared into Quire’s eyes.
“You misunderstand me. I am not unwilling, but I fear perhaps they are forewarned. Blegg accompanied us tonight, a thing he never does. He is outside somewhere, on the street.”
Quire ground his teeth in exasperation. But he steeled himself.
“You’ll not likely have another chance, Durand. You’ve got two men here, tonight, willing to do all we can to help you. We’ll not be coming again.”
Durand hesitated. Then he nodded, just once, curtly.
“Go,” Quire snapped through the mask. “Tell the man waiting in the lobby I’ll need the pair of you to wait for me. We’ll all go out together.”
The music died behind him even as he watched Durand working his way rapidly towards the doors. A ripple of applause rolled around the room. Quire made his own way through the crowd, going carefully, making himself as anonymous as a big man in a harlequin costume could; it should be possible here, tonight, if nowhere else.
He was stymied, though, by a stiff arm thrust out to block his path. An angry jester brandished a belled and beribboned stick at him.
“Was it you, just barged into me?” the jester demanded. “Not so much as an apology, not so much as an excuse me?”
Quire shook his head mutely, and made to move away.
The jester tapped him on the chest with that ringing stick.
“Disgraceful, sir! Quite disgraceful. I will be making a complaint to your employer.”
“Aye, go ahead,” Quire said and moved decisively away, striding quickly enough to leave his assailant in his wake.
He got himself into the doorway, and turned back to cast his eyes over the bobbing hats and wigs and tiara-laden heads. He looked for Ruthven’s turban, or for anything that might be suggestive of pursuit, and saw nothing. The musicians were tuning their instruments, putting violins back under their chins. There would be another dance in moments.
He spun on his heel.
“Mr. Quire,” he heard behind him. “Mr. Quire, that is you, isn’t it?”
He could have kept going, perhaps, but he feared Ruthven might raise a commotion, even have him detained. That would leave Durand and Dunbar alone.
He stopped, and turned about, and faced Ruthven, who must have come up to the door along one of the walls, out of Quire’s line of sight, and must have done it quickly. He was taking the absurd turban off his head, and ran a long-fingered hand back through his hair to straighten it.
“I thought I recognised the set of those shoulders. Do take that ridiculous mask off, man.”
Quire did so, and glared at Ruthven.
Another harlequin, carrying two empty trays in his hands, came out of the ballroom. Ruthven moved out of his way, to one side of the doors.
“I really thought we had done with you, Mr. Quire,” he said, picking at the cloth of his headgear. “I really did. Blegg predicted I would learn otherwise, and so it transpires. I am very sorry to find I was mistaken.